


Teeth in the Grass

by PeachyPink



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (very) mild blood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachyPink/pseuds/PeachyPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford reminisces about Bill while between dimensions, his mixed feelings resurface and they won't die down as Ford is unexpectedly reminded of him once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teeth in the Grass

It was weird how sometimes bits of things of his dimension, his reality, would leak through into the new one he submitted into calling home. Something would make reference to a country he had heard of, or discuss their meals made with apples. He missed fruits the most, he guessed – there wasn’t any fruit here. “Here” for Stanford Pines was neither really Here nor There, but some vast desolate Somewhere that was without bounds. He thought it was like his mindscape (there were things he knew, things he feared, except the one being he both feared and cherished the most) but other creatures outside his control came and left as they pleased. Ford didn’t enjoy their company, they reminded him of…well, he didn’t think about it too long. He wasn’t sure if _he_ could find him here and didn’t want to risk it, especially when he was vulnerable, out in the open like this.

He didn’t know how long he had been here since it felt like time passed differently. The atmosphere was bitter and the sky was a constant smoky brown, the days differing from the nights only by sight of the glint of stars on the rare less-overcast evening. Oh, things grew, but to call them plants was an indignity. Their tendrils lay about like rat traps, prickle-lined leaves held agape in toothy grins. Ford was relieved that they left him well alone, though the other folks he met regarded it as something less than complimentary. He wondered if _he_ knew that there were people weirder than they’d been together.

Mirage-like, there was a town that would sometimes be there and sometimes not (called “Occasionally” by the rest of the creatures he had encountered). The people and places all changed each time he entered, though the feeling of the place stayed the same. It was always busy, bustling, with a sense of near-desperation felt by all that they wanted to be in and out of there as soon as they could. Ford was decent at cards, even though the decks were not like what he was used to, and always managed to wrack up enough money to get supplies, and then some – a weird die was one of his earnings of the night in this case. He wasn’t as good as Stan by any means, but he wished his brother could see him now, using his tricks to stay alive. He knew that he’d give Ford a hard time for being as crooked as he but he hoped that he’d be proud. Ford shook his head. He didn’t want to put any thought into that, not when he’d never see Stanley again.

Earnings pocketed, Ford left and went to the cheap motel on the edge of town. He hoped that this particular gamble would pay off – the place was hit or miss as far as pests went. Once he’d slept on one of their beds and woke up in a nest of cockroaches (to be frank it reminded him of being captured by the gnomes, with all that chittering and scurrying).

“One night please,” he said, sliding the money over to the receptionist, an amorphous band of glistening entrails. A shiny hand emerged to take the money; another passed a key. Ford gingerly took it and left for the room number scrawled on the key fob. Up the stairs and to the right and Ford unlocked the door. He opened it, and closed it right away again.

The second time he was more prepared. It looked just like a motel he’d stayed at when he was a kid, right down to the two queen-sized beds with the 60’s quilted bedspreads. It was uncanny how similar it was. He nitpicked the rest of the room before deciding it was safe, and even then he set the deadbolts before putting his things down.

Ford turned his attentions to the little radio on the nightstand and chuckled. As if he would get anything here! Still, he hadn’t listened to anything in months, maybe he could find news he could understand, anything to break up the silence. He fiddled with the dials and got–

“– _got a real treat for you today, my people of Seattle: ‘Talking in Your Sleep’! This song is dedicated to F from William. You must be a special person, F, if Billie is dragging this song back for ya!_ ” The DJ rambled on for a bit more before the song started up. Ford was going to shower (he had to enjoy the rare treat of indoor plumbing while he could, after all) but the dedication left him paralyzed on the edge of the bed. After a few seconds he managed to calm himself – there were lots of Bills, after all, right? – and shed his coat and pulled off his boots.

“‘ _I can hear the things that you're dreaming about…’_ “

Ford unbuttoned his shirt and folded it, and set it beside his other things.

“‘ _When you open up your heart and the truth comes out_ …’”

He stepped out of his pants and laid them on the bed too.

“‘ _You tell me that you want me, you tell me that you need me, you tell me that you love me…_ ’”

He walked over to the sink and ran his hands through his hair, sparsely growing back along the sutures at the top of his skull, a halo of stubble amid his scraggly locks. He was graying already at the temples. He had been assured by the street surgeon that the metal plate would do the trick but he still didn’t feel safe. Maybe he’d been swindled after all, it had been awfully cheap and fast, at least as far as he expected for head surgery.

“‘ _And I know that I'm right, ’cause I hear it in the night…_ ’”

Ford picked at the seam’s scab above his ear and it began to bead blood. He winced but it didn’t stop him; he wiped at it with the back of his hand. He paused with his bloodied knuckle at his lips, his eyes meeting his reflection’s. For the briefest of seconds, it wasn’t his eyes that were looking back.

They were _his_.

**Author's Note:**

> My partner (macabrity on tumblr) actually wrote this and wanted me to upload it! And more than likely zie will wanna post more so I'll just mention in the notes which one of us wrote it.
> 
> Title is from "Teeth in the Grass" by Iron & Wine, and the song mentioned is "Talking in Your Sleep" by the Romantics


End file.
